


Summer Lovin' (Had me a Blast)

by redcigar



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Camp Counsellors au, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humour, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Too Many Pop Culture References, liberal interpretation of camp safety procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcigar/pseuds/redcigar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years back it was nothing to see Steve and Bucky hugging each other tightly goodbye, exchanging solemn vows to see each other next year, and the year after, until they were old enough to be counselors, and wouldn’t that be so great? And they did, even as they grew older and lankier, early adolescence giving way to the awkward teenage years, and Bucky had poked at Steve’s knobbly elbows and laughed and Steve had stared at the tanned curve of Bucky’s shoulders and said nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Lovin' (Had me a Blast)

Steve counts it as a blessing that he has a good two hours of peace before something Goes Wrong.

 

The kids are all settled into their cabins, the obligatory yelling over bunk rights well underway, and Pepper has already shanghaied most of the counsellors into a ferrying system to get the kitchens stocked and ready for a dozen or so hungry adolescents. Clint has even started on the fire pit, although he keeps getting distracted by the bags of marshmallows until Nat sails by and tucks them under her arm pointedly. It’s beautiful weather too, the air warm on Steve’s skin, the smell of pine and wood smoke on the light breeze. He’s standing by the jetty, hands on his hips, watching the play of light on the water when an inflatable pool ball smacks him in the back of the head.

 

“No swimming,” he points out immediately.

 

“Harsh,” Tony complains, yellow sunglasses glinting in the setting sun. “And I brought my favourite shorts, too. They’re _sparkly._ ”

 

“You’re supposed to be organising the kitchen with Pepper.”

 

Tony snorts. “There is no organising _with_ Pepper. There is organising _adjacent_ to Pepper, maybe _perpendicular_ to Pepper, but no organising _with_ Pepper.”

 

“Wow, Tony,” Steve drawls, smiling despite himself, “that’s four name drops there, you want to get a tattoo of it instead? Just in case you forget?”

 

“Oh ha ha, and also _eat me_ ,” Tony snarks, “she said I was stacking the water bottles wrong and kicked me out. Clint’s sorted the fire pit and Sam has the kids settled in. So that just leaves our missing person’s report.”

 

“I’m right here, I didn’t go on sabbatical.”

 

“Yeah, no, I could see your ginormous head a mile away,” Tony snorts, and then cocks his hip and shrugs awkwardly, discomfort settling on his face, which is showing the beginnings of a sunburn. “I meant Barnes.”

 

Oh. Steve glances over Tony’s shoulder to the shrubs surrounding the jetty, as if the guy was just gonna jump out of the trees at them any second.

 

“He’s gone?”

 

“Said something about parking the van, haven’t seen him in half an hour,” Tony shrugs again, his eyes calculating, “maybe you should go look for him, Cap.”

 

Steve frowns. He never did make the football team, but it didn’t stop the nickname from sticking, even if all it did was bring back memories of skinned knees and Bucky’s anxious, disapproving stare. His mum’s patient upset.

 

“I’ll get him,” he tells Tony, rubbing suddenly sweaty palms against his cargo pants.

 

“Yeah,” Tony drawls, pulling a Capri Sun out of his leather jacket pocket, “Pep said you would.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A few years back, finding Bucky wouldn’t have been a chore to Steve. A few years back, when they were the gap toothed kids running around Camp Shield with band aids on their knees and twigs in their hair, if someone said “where’s Steve?” they would get the answer “with Bucky, of course.”  A few years back Bucky dragged Steve up into the bows of his favourite tree and they carved their name into the trunk and soaked in the evening sunlight and pilfered marshmallows, still a little sticky and burnt at the edges. And Bucky had laughed and counted Steve’s freckles and then Steve had fallen out of the tree and broken his arm in two places.  

 

It wouldn’t be the first time his mum came to pick him up early from camp, a first aid kit at the ready, asthma attacks aside. It was the first time she found Bucky waiting next to him at the cooling fire pit whilst the counsellors patted his shoulder sympathetically, Bucky crying and crying because he let Steve _fall_ , Mrs. Rogers, it was _his fault, okay? Don’t be mad_.

 

A few years back it was nothing to see Steve and Bucky hugging each other tightly goodbye, exchanging solemn vows to see each other next year, and the year after, until they were old enough to be counsellors, and wouldn’t that be so great? And they did, even as they grew older and lankier, early adolescence giving way to the awkward teenage years, and Bucky had poked at Steve’s knobbly elbows and laughed and Steve had stared at the tanned curve of Bucky’s shoulders and said nothing.

 

And then the unthinkable happened, and Bucky had moved, and Steve had arrived to Camp Shield excited and red-cheeked and left solemn and quiet, because Bucky hadn’t even written to say why.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Steve catches the Kaplan kid on his way through the campsite to where the vans had been parked. Billy has one leg through the cabin windowsill and is frozen in bug-eyed horror as Steve pauses directly beside him. Somewhere behind him, his brother is cackling.

 

“Hey there, Billy,” Steve says, trying to look Stern and Disapproving. “Dinner’s not for another hour or so.”

 

“Uh, hey Mr. Rogers!” Billy says, a bit too-loud, flushing. “I was just on my way! To speak to you! About how unfair these random draws are. For cabin partners, I mean.”

 

“Well I don’t know about that Billy, they’re as fair as we can make them, being random and all.”

 

There is a distinct rustle in the shrubs behind him, leading onto the neighbouring cabin.

 

“Yeah, but, like, you’ve read Harry Potter, yeah?”

 

“Sure have,” Steve agrees easily, grinning quickly at Tommy when he sticks his head out behind his bunk to take a photo of Billy, still halfway out the window, with his disposable camera.

 

“Well it’s like the houses, you know? Like, just because someone is put in Gryffindor doesn’t mean they _should_ be in Gryffindor, and then there are all sorts of unfair stuff involved, like, what if that person is friends with a Slytherin, but a Gryffindor just can’t hang out with a Slytherin, but then, why not? You know? Having the houses separated like that really doesn’t promote inter-house connections.”

 

“Inter-house connections, huh?” Steve repeats.

 

Tommy is now making kissy-faces at his bedpost, swooning.

 

Good God, they’re only fourteen.

 

“Yeah,” Billy persists weakly, although he’s turning progressively redder and redder the longer Steve patiently smiles him down, “you know. For community. And stuff. Bruce is always singing about it in his songs.”

 

“Oh, so you do listen to those songs, do you? And here I thought you and Teddy Altman just passed notes the whole time.”

 

Billy goes amazingly red before blanching, and slowly draws his leg back inside the cabin.

 

“See you at dinner, Billy,” Steve says peacefully.

 

“See you, Mr. Rogers,” Billy agrees meekly.

 

“And you better get back in your cabin too, Teddy,” Steve adds, “Sam’s going to be counting heads soon.”

 

The shrubs behind him rustle again, before a quiet voice mumbles “Yessir Mr. Rogers, sir.”

 

Steve shakes his head, smiling, before continuing his trek away from camp, ignoring Billy’s frantic hissing out the window and Tommy’s distant, laughing, “you’re my _favourite_!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bucky’s not with the vans.

 

Steve looks around, a little lost, before following the dirt road a little further away up the hill, where the trees and bushes are a little denser, a little wilder. It’s not long before he smells cigarette smoke, and he sighs loudly, following the trail.

 

“That’s dangerous as hell, Buck!” He calls. “You know better than that!”

 

There’s no answer for a while, until Steve comes across a familiar tree and pauses, flushing. Looking up proves him correct. Bucky’s straddled across one of the thicker branches, ratty jeans scuffed at the knees and converse swinging just a few feet over Steve’s head. He glances down at Steve, cigarette embers glowing a little, before looking back up at the sunset.

 

Steve doesn’t know what happened to Bucky. He doesn’t if anything _did_ happen to Bucky. All he knows is that he went to Camp Shield every year after Bucky left and didn’t hear a word from him, until he graduated and became a voluntary counsellor over the Summer, now that his body stopped failing him and actually filled out a little, let him swim and run and work with the other counsellors. And when this year came around Steve signed up at the community centre as per normal, before pausing, because dead at the top of the sheet in a familiar tidy scrawl was _James B. Barnes_ , volunteer counsellor.

 

Steve saw him before camp began, of course, at the admin meeting when all the counsellors met together to organise activities, Tony yawning over his thermos of hot coffee in the early dawn while Clint snored amongst the grass and Pepper took notes. And there had been Bucky, arrived even before Steve, and his hair was longer and his arms were a little rounder, a little stronger, and there was a line between his eyes that wasn’t there before and a defensive hunch to his shoulders which was new, but it was _Bucky –_

He hadn’t said a word to Steve, even when the meeting disbanded. Just got on his bike and rode away, calm as anything. Steve is still working on pretending it didn’t hurt.

 

“Buck!” He calls again, “seriously, we had a lesson on fire safety and everything. Rhodey made a slideshow!”

There isn’t an answer for a long minute, before Bucky exhales loudly and stubs his cigarette out on the trunk. He swings his legs up and over, and lands in the long grass next to Steve. They match in height now, but Steve still feels small next to Bucky, his dark hair almost red in the evening sun. The cicadas are starting to hum. Bucky’s gaze is… not cool, exactly. But strange. Appraising.

 

“Really, Rogers?” He scoffs, smiling wryly. “Haven’t seen each other in four years and you’re gonna harp on me for smoking?”

 

All petty retorts fall easily to Steve’s tongue. _You didn’t say anything, either_ , he wants to protest. Instead he flushes a little, almost angry, and pushes Bucky’s arm. But Bucky doesn’t go with the shove, however, just pushes back against Steve, unyielding.

 

“It’s not good for you, Jerk,” Steve says, floundering, “’sides, don’t wanna make me start coughing, do you?”

 

Bucky blinks rapidly, looking surprised. “That still bothers you, huh? Your lungs? Thought they were better since you’re all,” he makes a gesture with his hands that encompasses Steve, his shoulders.

 

“I’m what?” Steve prods defensively, “better?”

 

“ _Better_?” Bucky parrots meanly. “Shit, Steve--”

 

“Hey Cap!” Nat calls from the edge of the woods, red hair vibrant against the scratched blue paint of Clint’s panel van. “You found Tall Dark and Stupid yet? These kids are getting antsy for some sausage rolls.”

 

“Y-Yeah!” Steve suddenly realises how close he and Bucky are standing. He can smell the cigarette smoke on Bucky’s clothes, and Bucky’s right, his lungs haven’t bothered him as much lately, but he thinks they twinge a little in response, a sharp tug in his chest. “Coming!”

 

“Cap?” Bucky snorts. “You finally make the team?”

 

Steve abruptly remembers the year after he failed tryouts, skinny body bruised and sore, and the way Bucky had put his arm around Steve’s shoulders at the campfire, whispered that _they’re all idiots anyway, Stevie, you’ll show them._

Bucky has a strange look on his face. Maybe he’s remembering too.

 

“No,” Steve looks away, “No, I didn’t. Come on, Buck. Before Kaplan digs a tunnel to Altman’s cabin.”

 

This at least makes Bucky laugh. “ _Geez_ , those kids,” he sighs, “we were never that bad, were we?”

 

“I dunno, Buck,” Steve says, falling back into the easy comradery, the lazy grins, “we might’ve gone for conjoining surgery given the option. But then, we weren’t, y’know. Like Billy and Teddy.” He’s blushing, he knows it, but tries to play it off, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket and settling into an easy stride.

 

Bucky doesn’t respond.

 

“Buck?” When Steve turns to him, however, it’s only in time to see Bucky storm ahead, his shoulder knocking Steve’s a little meanly, jacket collar turned up against the light. Steve follows them, but no matter how fast he walks, Bucky is always a little ahead, and Steve doesn’t think he wants to start running, or else he’d die from embarrassment. They re-join the camp just as Clint is setting the campfire and Sam is gently but firmly suggesting that someone _else_ start the fire. The kids are filing out of their cabins, over-loud and anxious with excitement, the first night at camp jitters. Bucky moves to the other side of the campsite, where the counsellor cabins are, joining Rhodey and Nat where they’re chatting at the wooden steps.

 

Steve goes to follow, but then he sees the Parker kid show Tommy a bag of what looks suspiciously like fire crackers while Clint and Sam’s backs are turned. Sighing, Steve changes path.

 

“Everything okay?” He overhears Nat greet Bucky, and looks up in time to see Bucky grin at her, easy and wide, and something hurts in his chest a little, something mean.

 

“Alright Pete,” he says loudly, “hand them over.”

 

“Aw, man,” Peter sighs.

 

“Yeah.” Steve agrees glumly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Once Bruce pulls out his guitar, Steve figures it’s safe to turn in for the night.

 

In all fairness, he didn’t even realise Bucky had already turned in until he enters the cabin for the male counsellors and strips off his shirt, a little sweaty from sitting so close to the campfire. He leaves the lights off, the glow from the fire bleeding through the small window enough to guide him past the wooden bunks. But towards the back of the cabin it’s darker than he anticipated, and he feels around blindly for his bed, his bag.

 

His hand touches bare, warm skin, at the same time as a burst of raucous laughter comes from the campfire outside. He flinches, and the body flinches, and Bucky rolls over in the dark, eyes yellow in the light, bleary.

 

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, with burning cheeks.

 

“Mm,” Bucky mumbles, and stares at Steve a little overlong, before rolling back over, wrapping his blanket up high over his shoulders.

 

Steve finds his bunk with shaky legs, pours himself into it.

 

“Night Buck,” he whispers hoarsely. _I missed you,_ he thinks. His hand is tingling, the sensory memory of Bucky’s warm skin, the way it was warm when they were teenagers, when there was nothing strange to the way they clutched at each other. There is a long silence in the cabin, punctuated by Bruce’s rolling lyrics and distant chatter at the fireplace – hushed giggling someplace closer than that, damn it, Billy –

 

“Night Stevie,” Bucky says under his breath.

 

Steve bites his lip and tries to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Wow,” Steve says drily, “I actually thought you were joking about the shorts.”

 

They are indeed sparkly, and gold. Tony strikes a pose.

 

“My eyes,” Nat complains, where she is objectively keeping an eye on the swimming kids from the jetty, but looks suspiciously like she is sunbaking.

 

“Jealous,” Tony retorts, “I know you Tasha, I know you wish you had these buns.”

 

“Look the other way, Steve, I’ll drown him,” Rhodey says helpfully, as he lugs an armful of pool noodles over to the water and unceremoniously dumps them in, to excited cheering from the campers. Kate, predictably, grabs the nearest noodle and starts smacking Eli over the head with it. Billy is covered in about seven layers of sunscreen and is swimming from tree shaded pool to tree shaded pool, looking hunted. Teddy gorged himself on about ten tuna sandwiches earlier in the morning and is floating on his back downstream, like a golden beached whale.

 

“Wow, Rhodey, really? My very own Iago, how could you?”

 

Rhodey raises an eyebrow. “I think you have that story a little backwards, Tony.”

 

“Do it, Steve,” Nat cajoles, red lips spreading underneath her Hepburn styled hat and heart sunglasses. “I’ll give you an alibi.”

 

“I don’t know if ‘ _wondering why he hadn’t drowned Tony sooner’_ is a good alibi,” Steve muses, good-naturedly. Billy is swimming frantically back to shore, and Steve fishes the sunscreen out of his pack pre-emptively.

 

“Actually, I was thinking something more along the lines of _‘too busy writing Mr Rogers-Barnes in the margins of his diary.’_ ”

 

Steve shoots her a look, but Nat is already watching the water again, face mostly hidden from view except for her serene smile. Steve can feel Tony and Rhodey watching him, and he decides to watch the water too, hoping to play it off. But then, no answer is sort of an answer, right? So maybe he _should_ say something, to tell Nat she’s mistaken. Unless she’s saying that for a reason, like if Bucky said something, did Bucky say something?

 

“Hey, Nat,” Steve says, flustered. “Did Bucky—”

 

“ _Nope_ ,” Tony announces sharply, and Steve turns, confused, to find Bucky walking with Pepper along to the jetty. He apparently skipped the water safety session as well as the fire safety session, because unlike Steve and the others he’s forgone a swimming top altogether and is just wearing a pair of dark swimming trunks. This means his chest is showing, which means Steve is seeing his chest, which is – well, that’s definitely changed over the years.

 

“Na-uh, no way,” Tony waggles his finger, offended, “I had to sit through _three whole hours_ of Pepper lecturing me about taking my shirt off around the young and impressionable, I’ll not stand for this obvious show of favouritism--”

 

“Tony,” Pepper sighs as they join the group, “shut up.”

 

“—Just because he might, _might_ , be a little more GQ worthy—”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey says, tense. “Shut _up_.”

 

Bucky – Bucky isn’t speaking.

 

Steve realises why, once he’s gotten his brain in gear and has stopped not-staring at Bucky’s stomach muscles. Although unnoticeable from a distance, one of Bucky’s arms isn’t quite right from close up. It’s still fleshy and muscled, but also unmistakeably fake. A prosthesis, and a high-end one at that. Steve feels something painful turn over in his stomach, and a lump rises quickly to his throat. That’s – that’s Bucky’s _arm_ , and he hadn’t said anything, not a thing, not even to Steve –

 

“The shirt will get twisted in the joints, if I swim in it,” Bucky drawls, like it’s nothing. He won’t look at Steve. “Sorry folks, guess you’re gonna have to put up with the gun show.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Nat smirks, the only one who isn’t staring like an idiot, “get in the water, loser, before Steve blows a fuse.”

 

That kicks Steve into gear. He hisses, “ _Nat_!” automatically, and Bucky shifts on his feet a little, like he’s suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not, Buck—”

 

There’s a rush of water behind him, as Billy pulls himself up out of the water. He pauses, sensing the tense atmosphere, and looks apologetic.

 

“Hey, Mr. Rogers,” he starts.

 

“Sunscreen,” Steve blurts, “yeah, sure Billy, come on.”

 

As if on cue, more of the kids come away from the water for a snack break and drinks, although Teddy just looks at the platters of sandwiches and groans painfully. Billy pokes at his stomach and laughs, sends him spinning back into the water. Tony ends up wielding one of the pool noodles and fences with Kate along the dock while Eli catches his breath, and then Cassie jumps out of the water to defend Kate’s honour and all bets are off – Rhodey rushes in to save the day, while Nat goes from lazily observant to lazily alert, making sure no one trips over any floorboards or hurts themselves.

 

Steve stands at the water’s, clenching and unclenching his fists. The lake is as beautiful as it is every year, as it is in his memories, memories of Bucky teaching him out to swim even when he was too thin to hold his breath for long. Of stealing aloe vera cream from the counsellors cabin to slather on Bucky’s burns overnight so he wouldn’t get in trouble for staying out in the sun for too long. Now, even with the sound of kids laughing and Clint and Sam arguing over the last of the sandwiches, now it just seems sort of sad.

 

“You still get those freckles, huh.”

 

Steve jumps. He thought Bucky had moved away with the others, but he’s right there next to Steve, hands in the pockets of his swim shorts like he feels uncomfortable. Steve smiles on automatic, but it must show something of what he’s feeling, because it makes Bucky look curious and a little hurt.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, sombre, “not that much has changed, Buck.”

 

Bucky snorts dully. “I dunno,” he says, “don’t remember you having all that muscle on you before. And you seemed a little surprised to see _this_.” He gestures with his prosthetic, weakly.

 

Steve feels a little insulted. “Well, of course I was, Buck,” he protests quietly, wary of overhearing preteens and nosy friends, “it’s not like you told me about it. What did – No, never mind—“

 

“What happened?” Bucky smirks.

 

“It’s not my business, Buck, not…” _Not anymore_ , Steve thinks, a little strangely. But Bucky is moving closer to him, and the heat from his skin is distracting Steve. He smells like water and warmth and like he always has, except now instead of baby fat cheeks and dimples Bucky is solid and real, chiselled in places Steve never noticed before. Or at least, pretended he never noticed before. Bucky watches him for a moment, before shrugging, coming to stand beside him so their shoulders touch. They stare out over the lake together, watch the playing kids. Clint has Nat on his shoulders now, and they’re wrestling with Tony and Pepper. Sam and Rhodey have taken up watch on the bank, eyes sharp and assessing.

 

“Train accident,” Bucky says out of the blue, bitten out like it hurts to say. “Turns out Russia’s infrastructure isn’t that great, who knew?”

 

“You were in _Russia_?”

 

Bucky shrugs again.

 

“I never knew,” Steve protests, a little helplessly.

 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, “there’s a lot you didn’t know, Steve.”

 

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

 

“It means,” Bucky snaps, and then stops, sighing heavily. He’s chewing his lip red, and when he looks at Steve, Steve drags his eyes away a few heartbeats too late. Bucky’s surprised. His mouth opens in a small _oh._

“Hey Cap! We need backup!” Clint shouts. “We have an agent down, I repeat, agent down!”

 

“Alas, for I have fallen,” Nat chimes in drolly, drenched head-to-toe with some riverweed draped on her shoulder. “Because my teammate has _shit-all balance—_ ”

 

“Aw, Nat—”

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, under his breath, a little quickly, but Bucky is already turning away, “ _Buck_ ,”

 

He reaches out, doesn’t realise he’s grabbed Bucky’s prosthetic arm before it’s too late for him to change his mind. Bucky flinches, but stays.

 

“I mean, Buck,” Steve says, floundering, “Why are you being so sore with me? I don’t know what I did wrong, but, I just – I missed you, alright? I missed you, and I just wish you’d written, at least once, to tell me you were okay, or,” he glances at Bucky’s arm, “if you – if you weren’t. Is that wrong? We were friends, right? We’re friends still?”

 

Bucky stares him down, his eyes, normally so blue, are dark and deep, and Steve shivers under his gaze.

 

“Are we?” Bucky asks, all low-like.  

 

“Yo, _Cap_ ,” Clint yells, and Bucky pulls his arm away, walks back to the cabins instead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They have a scavenger-hunt that afternoon, within the boundaries of the camp, of course, and Steve hasn’t the heart to try and separate Billy and Teddy when they automatically clutch at each other’s arms when teams are called. The woods are part of the scavenging area, but they aren’t extensive, and Rhodey, Sam and Pepper are patrolling the edges to make sure none of the kids wander too far or get lost. Bruce stays at the campsite to keep track of points and items, and the counsellors all have walkie-talkies on them in case everything goes seriously Crystal Lake. Not that it ever has, they have the scavenger hunt every year, and it’s never gone pear-shaped.

 

When Steve and Bucky were kids, they always teamed up, used to treat it like some military operation, bloodthirsty in their will to be the victors. In all of Steve’s disposable film reels he and Bucky are dirt-stained and proud, holding their papier-mâché trophy, arm-in-arm. Steve had braces towards the end, silver chunky things that he was self-conscious about showing, except in his photos with Bucky, when he forgot he had them at all.

 

Now he wanders the patch of woods opposite the camp, a small strip that follows the lake’s edge. He hears cackling in the distance, victorious cheers, and smiles to himself. His walkie-talkie crackles, and he buzzes through in time to hear Tony rant,

 

“— _fourteen is way too young for tongue, I’m telling you guys, I wanna start carrying a bottle of water to spray these two. Hey –_ hey! _Don’t run away from me you little punks, this is an intervention_!”

 

Steve starts laughing, he can’t help himself, belly laughs by himself next to the water’s edge, sun warming his skin, and wherever he is in the forests or the campsites, he hopes Bucky’s laughing too.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They collect around the campfire that night, and dutifully take photos of Kate and Cassie with their papier-mâché trophy, looking smugly jubilant. Kate has a few scratches on her cheeks, and Pepper is sympathetic to Eli’s complaints of “she actually _bit me_.” Tony looks a little shell-shocked, and Teddy and Billy look an odd mixture of defiant and apologetic. Peter fetches another handful of s’mores and then sits onto the trunk beside Steve, pale fingers sticky with melted chocolate and marshmallow.

 

“I saw your thing, today,” he says without aplomb, tucking in.

 

For a moment Steve panics, thinking the door to the shower block was broken again, but Peter continues speaking, not noticing Steve’s flash of horror.

 

“Your tree thing.”

 

Across the campfire, Bucky has confiscated Bruce’s guitar and is plucking experimentally at a few strings with his good hand. His face downturned, some dark hairs glowing in the light of the embers. He glances up a little at Peter’s words, but doesn’t speak. Steve thinks of his and Bucky’s name, carved crudely into the bark, and snorts, a little sadly.

 

“Wow, that old thing? Surprised it’s even still there.”

 

Bucky looks back down at his guitar, blank-faced.

 

Peter shrugs. “One of the clues was there, the old inhaler, tied up on the branch. Figured you’d put it there.”

 

Steve hadn’t been in control of scattering the clues. He’d donated the beaten up old inhaler, knowing Peter had some health problems of his own, maybe tailored the clue a little in a way he knew the kid would figure out – under Nat’s knowing smile, of course – but he hadn’t tied it up anywhere. Pepper had organised that, delegating jobs like the supreme mistress of micromanaging she is. He’d seen her head out into the woods and surrounding area a few hours back, her, Sam, and –

 

Bucky plucks at the strings of the guitar. It’s out of tune, because of course it is. But no one has had the heart to tell Bruce that. His mouth pinches, like he knows Steve is watching. Steve is replaying what Bucky had said earlier – has been replaying it for hours –

 

“ _Are we?”_ Bucky had asked, and Steve remembers the way Bucky’s skin had felt under his hands, warm and soft and strong.

 

“Sorry you didn’t win, Pete,” Steve says, a little faintly.

 

“I have s’mores, dude,” Peter says, gorging himself, “how is that not a victory?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

That night Steve stays up later than everybody else. The kids are hurried off to bed in a torrent of complaints and protests – sugar-high and filled with adrenaline from running around in the woods for hours. Sam and Pepper finally get them tucked in and disappear off into the cabins themselves, looking exhausted. Tony slinks after Pepper a few moments later, ignoring Rhodey’s jibes. Bruce had turned in even before the kids, perpetually tired and rumpled, and Clint was snoring on the dirt and grass next to the fire, chocolate sticky around his gaping mouth. Nat looks at Steve, who is looking at Bucky, who is looking at the guitar in his hand, plucking at the strings thoughtfully. She sighs and bullies Clint awake and to his feet.

 

“Come on, big guy,” she mutters, hustling him off to the counsellor cabins.

 

Steve comes to a decision, clenches his hands, and resolves himself. He surges to his feet in a fast movement. Bucky doesn’t look up.

 

“Turning in?” He asks, a little tightly.

 

“Nah,” Steve says, proud of the way his voice doesn’t waver. “Nah, I think – I think I’m gonna go for a walk instead.”

 

He waits a few moments, satisfied Bucky has registered his words, and then grabs one of the nearby torches, turning off into the woods. Their tree isn’t that far from the main camp, maybe five to ten minutes’ walk, and it’s a full moon out anyway, so it’s well-lit around Steve as he trudges through the underbrush. The clues from the scavenger hunt are still pinned around on the occasional tree, painstakingly printed in cursive on fake tea-stained paper that Bucky had singed at the edges with his zippo lighter.

 

Steve finds their tree automatically. He knows where it is, he’s always known where it is, maybe visited it every year after Bucky left, and dug his thumbs into the indents of his name petulantly with all the wronged anger a teenage boy could muster.

 

He’s sitting on the branch in the fading cool, swinging his legs under the moonlight when Bucky finds him.

 

Bucky has a cigarette again, but he’s smoking it almost nervously, and after a few seconds stubs it out on the ground. He doesn’t say anything. Steve doesn’t say anything. Then Bucky clears his throat.

 

“Sorry I didn’t write,” he mutters hoarsely, “the… the accident happened soon after, it was all so fast and then my parents broke up and I was dealing with this and all the tests and my sisters and—”

 

“It’s okay, Buck.” Steve protests.

 

“But it’s _not_ ,” Bucky swears, kicking the tree trunk. “I was s’posed to write, we promised each other, and of course you didn’t know what happened, so I should’ve. I’m sorry. I guess I was just…”

 

“Scared?” Steve guesses. Bucky nods. Steve can’t tell in the moonlight, but he thinks he’s probably flushing. Bucky doesn’t flush as easy as Steve does, but when he does, Steve can’t ever help but stare.

 

“That’s stupid, Buck,” he admonishes, “You don’t ever have to be scared around me.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, challenging. “Why don’t you come down here then?”

 

There’s something extra to his tone, something deeper, like how he spoke to Steve earlier, on the jetty. Steve feels that swooping sensation in his stomach, and this time he’s not confused about what it means. He takes his time swinging his leg over the branch, bracing to jump down.

 

But as soon as his feet hit the grass he has no time to steady himself before Bucky is shoving him up and against the tree trunk, fists twisted in the soft cotton of Steve’s shirt, one weaker than the other.  

 

“You sure _you’re_ not scared, Rogers?” He asks, up close. Steve thinks Bucky’s trying to be mean, trying to scare him off, maybe. Like he did when they were kids, whenever Bucky was the one who was scared, and didn’t like it that way.

 

“I ‘aint ever gonna be scared of you, Buck,” Steve swears under his breath, heart beating rapid-fast in his chest, “so… so you’re just gonna have to deal with that.”

 

He can feel Bucky waver, the solid weight of him pushing against Steve and then pulling away uncertainly, rocking on the balls of his feet. Every time he comes close his long hair drifts towards Steve’s nose, lips, cheeks. It tickles. Steve scrunches his nose, automatically, a shiver running quickly down his spine.

 

“You, you still have your freckles,” Bucky mutters, nonsensically, eyes zeroing in on the movement.

 

Steve kisses him.

 

He’s kissed people before, of course he has. Peggy in high school, before she moved back to England, and one or two people in his early college days before he realised he was still hung up on some cheesy summertime memory. But with Bucky it’s different, of course it was always going to be different. He’s larger than Steve, the weight of him heavy, the taste of him stronger. Bucky pauses the moment Steve makes contact but then surges against him with renewed strength, opening his mouth against Steve’s and chewing gently at his tongue, his lips, like he wants to eat him. It makes Steve laugh, a little, and Bucky breaks away, embarrassed.

 

“You laughin’ at me, punk?” He scowls. The effect is ruined by his bee-stung lips, his blown-out eyes.

 

“Sure am,” Steve responds, embarrassed at how thready his voice sounds in the darkness of the woods. There’s a sudden chill in the air, like coming rain, but Bucky is a furnace against him, bracketing him in. “You thought this was gonna scare me off, Buck?”

 

“Well,” Bucky mutters, “couldn’t tell my best friend I wanted to count his freckles with my tongue now, could I?”

 

Which, _well_. Heat rushes through Steve, he’s burning up, you could melt ice on his face.

 

“Pretty sure you could,” he manages weakly, but Bucky is already distracted, pressing his thumb into the skin of Steve’s jaw, prying his mouth open, eyes on Steve’s lips, probably as swollen as Bucky’s by this point. “Pretty sure… Pretty sure your best friend has been dreaming about that since he was fourteen.”

Bucky snorts wetly, so close his lips bump Steve’s as he speaks.

 

“Well, shit,” he mumbles, “guess Kaplan isn’t ahead of the curve after all.”

 

“Tony’s gonna need therapy,” Steve laughs.

 

“Pretty sure Tony heard me rubbing one off the other night after you fell asleep with your shirt off,” Bucky points out unrepentantly, and Steve’s hips jerk unconsciously, “so, you know, might have shown my hand there. Not _literally_ ,” he adds after a moments pause, and Steve laughs so hard he thinks he might have pulled a muscle.

 

After his fit has subsided and Bucky’s giggles taper off, a rush of cool air moves through the woods, and Steve shivers. Bucky presses up against him, their bodies aligning, damp grass staining the edges of their pants. They watch each other a moment. It starts to rain, gently, and then harder.

 

“I really missed you, Buck,” Steve says quietly, and Bucky winces, chewing his lip.

 

“I really missed you too, Stevie,” he swears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They walk back to camp hand-in-hand. Nat is standing at the edge to the female counsellor’s cabin, under the awning, holding a torch. She looks frustrated, but also pleased.

 

“I was about to send out a hunting party,” she points out.

 

“We’re alive,” Steve points out.

 

“Uh-huh,” she says, eyes roving over them, “sure you don’t need a dip in the lake first before you’ve boys turn in?”

 

Steve flushes, the ache in his stomach making itself aware to him. Bucky shifts next to him, his palm turning sweaty against Steve’s. The rain picks up, and Steve huddles automatically against him.

 

“Nah,” Bucky says, his voice a bit deeper than normal, “I think we’re good.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thankfully the rain eases the next morning, so they don’t have stir-crazy teenagers to deal with on top of everything else. Everything else being the hurried kiss before wandering off to their separate bunks, and heated looks upon waking, rumpled and cocooned in the scratchy cabin blankets while Tony stormed through the aisle complaining that Rhodey was hogging the shower again, Clint yawning loud enough to wake the dead. Steve had rubbed at his eyes, and caught Bucky’s gaze, and smiled small and secret at him. They go about their normal routine, helping prep for breakfast and forcing the kids out of their warm nests. Tommy even clutches at the doorframe of his cabin for a few minutes of protest while Nat takes one leg and Clint the other, dragging him out into the chilly morning under a hail of shrieked complaints.

 

“Oh my god, Tommy, shut up,” Billy groans over by the campfire, where Bruce is cooking sausages and eggs, and he and Teddy are huddled together under one of the extra blankets. The grass is still a little damp, but the sunshine is looking promising for a warming day.

 

They have group exercises on the schedule, on the rope and tyre course, trust-falls, that sort of thing. Pepper has her clipboard out and is looking ready for action, whistle around her neck like she’s a drill instructor. Tony looks both enamoured and confused that he’s enamoured, which Steve ribs him endlessly about.

 

Cassie has trouble on the rope balancing course, even looks like she’s about to cry once she’s up off the ground, so Steve stays with her for the duration of the day, holding out his arms with assurances that the harness will catch her if she comes off, and that failing, Steve himself. Peter, meanwhile, takes to climbing around the course like some sort of spider-monkey, despite his frail health. At archery, Kate takes up a bow with a single-minded bloodiness, and even Nat takes a precautionary step backwards from the range.

 

“Gym is _awful_ with her,” Billy confides in Steve when he joins their group, “it’s like she’s Katniss and I’m standing between her, Prim, and a 12-piece KFC meal.”

 

“Inventive,” Steve says, approving, and Tommy groans sarcastically.

 

Across the range, Bucky is – for lack of a better word – showing off with the weights, having a mock contest with Teddy to see who can lift the most, safely, of course. Teddy is shocking strong for his age, but Bucky is mostly muscle now, and Steve flushes to remember how that felt pressed up against him, with the harsh texture of the tree trunk at his back. Bucky only has a white singlet on, dark hair tied off his face in a low bun, and the top of his real arm and nose are dusting red, beginning to shine a little.

 

Steve glances around. The other counsellors are engrossed with their charges, and Steve is feeling Brave.

 

“I’m gonna go get some more sunscreen,” he announces at large.

 

“Yes please,” Billy winces, and Clint acknowledges him with a salute.

 

Steve passes by Bucky and Teddy on his way back to the trail.

 

“You should get some too, Buck,” he says in a way he hopes sounds casual, despite his heartbeat thudding in his throat, the tremor in his hands. Bucky turns from Teddy, grinning, and then catches Steve’s look and grins a little differently, eyes gone dark.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “good idea.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The cabin is cool compared to the growing heat of the sun outside, and when Steve stumbles inside to the blessed quiet he feels a little shaky on his feet, like he’s drunk. He wanders further into the room, soaks in the smell of wood and coffee, eyes on Bucky’s bed where the blankets are still mussed and a hair tie sits abandoned in the crease of his pillow. His bravado is leaving him fast when the stairs rattle again and the cabin door opens a second time, Bucky looming quickly.

 

“You are actually burnt, you know,” Steve huffs, at the same time as Bucky says, “Hey Stevie, you wanna—”

 

They fall silent.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, quietly, “Yeah.”

 

Bucky hurries forward, bundling them together. They huddle on Bucky’s bed, because it’s a bottom bunk, and it’s a tight squeeze with the two of them bulky the way they are, and the bed protests the weight. But somehow Bucky manages to wriggle them together and roll them, so Steve ends up underneath him, palm surprisingly cold when he smooths his hands up Steve’s shirt to bunch underneath his arms. The prosthesis is a bit awkward, and snags on his sleeve a little, but Steve helps by wiggling the rest of the way.

 

The sheets smell like Bucky and Steve languishes in them, blushing even as he arches into Bucky’s questing hands.

 

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky swears, thumbing at the roll of his ribs, “what the hell happen to you, you sell your soul or somethin’?”

 

“Hey, rude,” Steve huffs, “Dietitians, Buck, they’re a hell of a thing.”

 

“Look at you,” Bucky insists, “Jesus.” And then he leans forward and bites down on Steve’s chest, right above the sternum, and Steve swears, jerking. “Jesus,” he says again, quieter.

 

“Buck, come on, we don’t have much time,” Steve says, and grabs him by his belt, pulling him in even closer, snugger than before.

 

“Don’t have any time, he says,” Bucky grumbles, and then stops grumbling when Steve’s tongue finds his throat, “we have – we have,” he gasps, “all the time in the world.” His hips stutter against Steve’s, and Steve grunts breathlessly, running his thumbs down the leather strap of Bucky’s belt to the warm skin beneath, growing warmer.

 

Bucky catches on quick, fumbling down with his good hand to unlatch his belt, tug almost frantically at Steve’s until Steve arches to slide his pants down over the jut of his hip. Bucky groans between his teeth. Steve burns under the attention, wants to hide his face, but there’s no space for even the thought of that, and instead he tucks his face into the corded curve of Bucky’s neck as shaking fingers find purchase, began to tug.

 

“Aw, _shit_ ,” Bucky swears, and Steve remembers the first time Bucky got Steve to swear, when they were thirteen and feeling rebellious, skipping stones on the lake under the evening sun, waiting for their parents to arrive to take them home and simultaneously hoping they’d never arrive at all.

 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve presses, when Bucky fumbles his calloused fingers alongside his, and surges against him, the chill dark of the cabin nothing against the warmth of Bucky’s skin, and the light of his eyes. The bunk is too small, one of Steve’s legs goes sliding off the sheet, sneaker squeaking on the floorboards as Bucky’s pace intensifies, their gasping loud in the silent room, before Bucky is grunting in a painful, bitten-off way, and Steve follows soon after, feeling winded.

 

Bucky slumps on him, pretty inelegantly, and Steve urges some sensation into his arms to loop them loosely around his back, cradling him close as they caught their breath together.

 

The cabin settles around them, dust mites glittering through the shafts of light coming through age-clotted windows. Eventually the sweaty wool sheets beneath them become too uncomfortable to ignore, and they rise with pitiful, laughing complaints. Steve knows he must look a mess, hair up at an angle, face and lips red, shirt off and cargo pants tangled clumsily around his thighs. Bucky isn’t much better. His hair looks like a rat’s nest, Steve hadn’t even realised he’d clenched a fist in it. He feels a twinge of apologetic remorse, but then catches Bucky’s gaze as they sit and breathe together, and swoops in to kiss him, unstoppable.

 

“Forty-two,” Bucky says.

 

“Muh?” Steve says, admittedly a bit rattled.

 

“Your freckles,” Bucky touches shaking wet fingertips to Steve’s mouth, and Steve blinks rapidly. “You have forty-two.”

 

He huffs a smile, tremulously.

 

There’s a sudden, spitting buzz of noise that breaks the silence, and they both jump. Bucky smacks his head against the top of the bunk and swears. Steve fumbles through the mound of clothing and sheets frantically, until he surfaces with –

 

“Oh no.”

 

“ _Oh yes,_ ” Nat’s voice hums through the walkie-talkie, “ _you are so lucky I confiscated this from Tony._ ”

 

“Oh shit,” Bucky swears, freezing.

 

“ _Also, sunscreen, Steve? Really? That’s what you went with?_ ”

 

“How much do we pay you to forget this ever happened?” Steve groans.

 

“ _Steven, sweetheart,_ ” and he can _hear_ her grin, the shark, “ _there isn’t enough money in the_ world.”

 

“Well,” Bucky says after a moment of horrified silence, “she’s not wrong there.”

 

And Steve can’t really argue with that, after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’ll see you next time, yeah?” Billy says morosely, while Teddy’s mother looks on amusedly.

 

“Facebook, Billy, come on,” Tommy swears, “You’re killing me here. Get in the damn van.”

  
“I’ll text you every day,” Teddy promises.

 

“Aw, kids,” Clint sighs, from the counsellor’s viewpoint over by the fire pit. Now that the Adults have arrived, they’ve broken into Tony’s not so secret stash of beers, and are collapsed around the fire in a lazy circle. Teddy’s mother catches Steve’s gaze over the top of her son’s head and rolls her eyes, long suffering. Steve grins into his can.

 

“What can you do?” Bucky grins, pulling out a cigarette before glancing at Steve and stuffing it back in his pocket. “They’re in love.”

 

He steals Steve’s can, takes a long sip.

 

“Barf,” Tony announces.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. honestly like probably so many OH&S rules were broken at this camp??? who is organising this??? fury???? where are their parents???  
> 2\. i'm sorry  
> 3\. can you tell this is my first attempt at smut


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